


There's no one else could warm my heart as much as you

by hapax (hapaxnym), Rokikurama



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1919 Flu Pandemic, Angel and Demon True Forms (Good Omens), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Aziraphale Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Aziraphale Is Pretty Good At Being An Angel Actually, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Church Bombing, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), It/Its Pronouns For Aziraphale, Love Confessions, M/M, Metaphysical Intimacy, Nobody Is Oblivious But They Aren’t Necessarily Happy About It, POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV Outsider, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, The Restorative Gift Of Being Seen, They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), World War I, World War II, Zie/Zir Pronouns for Aziraphale, artwork, neurodivergent character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokikurama/pseuds/Rokikurama
Summary: Despite having seen it only twice in his life, there had scarcely been a day over the past two decades that Munro didn’t think of the angel—if for no other reason, its image was the last thing he would see before closing his eyes at night, and first to greet him in the morning.A random encounter with an unconventional artist a century earlier has shaped much of Aziraphale’s approach to his relationship with Crowley ever since.  Can a reappraisal of the artist’s work bring about a new understanding of what they mean to each other?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 46
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. No need to wonder if I ever think of you

**Author's Note:**

> Fic and chapter titles from _Teo Torriatte (Let Us Cling Together)_ by Queen.
> 
> Hand on my heart, deepest thanks to my beta reader [burnttongueontea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnttongueontea/pseuds/burnttongueontea), who made this fic ten times more readable. 
> 
> It was important to me that the original character in this fic be neurodivergent, but even more important that he be (more than anything) just a person. Since I am hopelessly neurotypical, I owe great heaps of gratitude to my sensitivity readers: [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk), and another who wishes to remain anonymous (but has always been my best critic and knight in sharply-tailored armor.) Any authenticity you find in this character is due to their gentle guidance; any clunkers are entirely on me.
> 
> And, of course, thanks and awestruck admiration for [Rokikurama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokikurama/pseuds/Rokikurama), the artist whose amazing work will appear here in Chapter 3. I fell in love with her concept art for this piece the moment I saw it; and she has patiently and generously responded to all my questions, suggestions, panicking, importunings, and outright begging. You’re brilliant!
> 
> Content warning for the first chapter: original character death, bombing in warfare, threatened dog attack, physical punishment of said dog, mentions of anti-semitic propaganda (really, it’s not that dark, but I don’t want anyone to be taken unawares)

_April 1941_

_London. Shoreditch._

_The angel’s blessing was the last thing to flash across Graeme Munro’s mind before he died._

_This was not surprising. Despite having seen it only twice in his life (_ ‘only’ _; how many could say they had seen an angel even once?), there had scarcely been a day over the past two decades that Munro didn’t think of the angel—if for no other reason, its image was the last thing he would see before closing his eyes at night, and first to greet him in the morning. He didn’t speak of it as much as he used to, but that was only because everyone he knew was heartily sick of the story._

 _Nor was it particularly unusual that Munro died in the manner that he did. Tens of thousands of Londoners would die during the bombing campaign that became known as ‘the Blitz’. Many of them were Civil Defence Wardens like Munro. It was somewhat ironic, perhaps, that he did not die in the destruction of the church where he served as sexton_ [1] _, but he hadn’t even known at the time that the building that had been his duty and refuge was now nothing but ruin and flames._ [2]

_No, Munro had perished in a manner balanced precisely on the fulcrum of heroic and stupid. Hearing weak cries in the unsecured rubble of a block of flats not far from his own, he had rushed in to shift the wreckage before the rest of his squad arrived. (Like Munro, they had been deemed ‘unfit’ to be accepted for military service; unlike Munro, the other wardens were for the most part elderly and generally slow.) Unfortunately, the timbers he had hurriedly shoved aside to rescue what he had assumed to be a trapped child had been supporting portions of the original roof, which promptly fell upon him like, well, the proverbial ton of bricks._ [3]

_What_ was _unexpected was that Munro’s final thoughts of the angel were not his usual combination of wonder and gratitude, but rather contented satisfaction mingled with an odd sort of pity. In the seconds after Munro saw the beams split and begin to fall, he was flooded with memories of how he had taken the angel’s blessing and used it to fuel a life filled with creativity, usefulness, and quiet peace. He felt nothing but joyful anticipation at the thought of once again greeting his family, his mates lost in the War; of hearing once again all those beloved voices who had known him, accepted him, treasured and cherished and loved him, exactly as he was, in that blessed land where ‘_ there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain _’. But the angel …_

_In his last prayer, Munro sent back to the angel its own blessing: that all its tears should be wiped away, that all its empty spaces should be filled, that its world should become radiant with wonder and purpose._

_Exactly as the angel was._

~+<0>+~

_Post Notpocalypse_

_London. St. James Park_

It was probably that whole incident with the blasted dog that had finished things for Aziraphale.

The demon and the angel had been strolling through St. James’s, as they did now on a regular basis, as they had always done, although not with the sense of easy companionship permitted by the severing of ties with their respective “sides” that they currently exhibited. Had Crowley been one to ever employ the word _nice_ as anything but a curse, he would certainly have worn it out this morning: a nice walk on a nice day, in a nice park with the nicest possible entity by his side. Nothing could have been more, well, nice.

Until an elegant, well-groomed Skye Terrier, sedately trotting alongside an elegant, well-groomed young woman some twenty metres away, had given the air a suspicious sniff, bayed like a hound, jerked the leash out her owner’s startled grip, and barreled across the grass towards Crowley, resembling nothing so much as a maddened dustmop on a mission of vengeance. [4]

Crowley was sure he could have taken the little bastard—she couldn’t have weighed more than twenty pounds, tops, and had (probably) never melted a Duke of Hell—but never had the chance. With a quickness that belied his sturdy build, Aziraphale had slid in front of the demon, arms outstretched and wings extended (if still hidden from human sight) in an adjacent plane. With one smooth beat of his leftmost pinions, he slapped the terrier so smartly upon the snout that she somersaulted backwards into a yelping heap.

Her owner rushed over, although not with the apologies Crowley felt he deserved. “Lizzy, snoofkins, are you all right?” she fussed over her pet, which was currently gaping at the angel with huge betrayed eyes, as if her favourite squeaky toy had suddenly grown fangs and snapped at her.

 _Snoofkins?_ Crowley thought in disgust. That was practically animal abuse in itself.

“Did you _kick_ my dog?” the woman turned to demand of Aziraphale, apparently immune to his innate soothing charm. “I could have you _arrested_ for that!”

“Madame,” the angel responded politely, but with an edge to his voice that would have had Crowley immediately transforming into the smallest possible snake and hiding within the nearest flowerbed, “I assure you that you most certainly could _not_. I did not, as it happens, kick your dog, but I expect that a much worse fate will befall her, _and_ you, if you do not manage to keep that wretched beast under control, and restrained from attacking innocent …”

“Angel,” the demon interrupted, “it’s _fine_. No harm done.” He’d witnessed Aziraphale in this guardian mode before, of course, but it was beyond unnerving to have him protecting _Crowley_.

“Yes, but …”

“I’m not going to take …” the dog’s owner interrupted at the same time.

Crowley whirled around to her and let his sunglasses slide down his nose, just a touch, and glared at her over the rims. She instinctively recoiled, and Lizzy-snoofkins whined and flattened. “I said, _no harm done_.” Crowley let his teeth grow a bit too sharp for human, and gave the pair a smile lacking any warmth. The woman scooped up her mutt and backed off hastily, grumbling under breath about _perverts_ and _dog-haters_.

Crowley turned back to the angel, who was standing with his arms stiff at his side, fists still clenched, lips pressed together in a thin line. “A bit over the top, Aziraphale, don’t you think? S’not like I was in any danger.”

The Principality didn’t relax. “You cannot know that for certain, my dear. And I am certainly not going to stand idly by and permit you to come to any harm. Not now, not when I …. now that I can _protect_ you.”

“Angel, this …” Crowley reached beneath his sunglasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I don’t need your protection, all right? Big scary demon, me. ‘M not …”

“… _soft_?”

Oh, _bugger_. The angel was clearly angry and unhappy. Crowley had to fix this, and fast. Aziraphale should never be anxious, upset, distressed, feeling the necessity to be on guard. No, it was Crowley’s job to protect _him_. To save _him_. To take care of him. To comfort him. To _pamper_ him.

It was Crowley’s job to make sure that the angel should be safe and relaxed and content and happy every minute of every day.

Otherwise, why even bother to save the world?

“N-no. ‘M not soft. Can take care of myself. Take care of both of us. This sort of thing—” He waved one hand vaguely, then jammed the fingertips of both hands into his too-tight pockets. “—s’not necessary. S’not _like_ you.”

“Ah. Of course not.” Aziraphale looked away. “What _is_ like me, then?”

“You know. Books. Pastries. Bow ties. Cosy slippers.” Crowley racked his brains for all the things the angel liked best, trying to make him smile again. “Tartan blankets. Worn leather armchairs. Crackling fires. Old music.” But with each suggestion, Aziraphale’s shoulders just slumped further. “Umm. Feeding the ducks. A proper tea. You want tea at the Ritz, angel? My treat.” He stuck out an elbow, not even caring if he looked overly eager to please.

“Thank you, dear one, but I think not.” Aziraphale did not take his arm, did not even look his way. “I find myself … a bit weary. I’d be grateful for a lift back to the shop.”

“Yeah. Fine. No problem.” The demon dropped the scorned arm uselessly to his side, dug his other hand through his hair. “I’ll just order us in some, whaddya want, curry? Larb?”

“Oh, don’t bother. I shall probably be quite dull all day. Perhaps I’ll finish up that inventory I’ve been meaning to do for ages. You won’t want to stick around for that, I’m sure.”

Crowley was not sufficiently deaf not to hear the clearly unspoken _I don’t want you to stick around for that_. “Uh. Yeah. Plenty of things for me that need doing, yeah. I guess I’ll go out and, uh, do the things.”

The drive back to the bookshop was silent.

~+<0>+~

_Outside A Z Fell & Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books_

_London. Soho_

Crowley sat in the front seat of the Bentley, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He’d been sitting there, parked just down the street from the bookshop, watching the front door, for the better part of three hours now.

See, the thing was… the _thing_ was … well, the thing was that he had no idea what to do about this thing, this Capital-T _Thing_ that was going on in the angel’s head.

It has been said, and truthfully, that Crowley was the rare demon to have an imagination; and indeed, his powers in that regard were prodigious.

However, in the demon’s opinion, his imaginative gifts were _nothing_ on Aziraphale’s.

It had become agonizingly obvious in the months following the Apocaflop that the angel had succumbed to the fantastical delusion that he (that is, Aziraphale) actually _loved Crowley_.

Which was ridiculous.

Worse than ridiculous, it was _catastrophic_.

It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t love Aziraphale. While it wouldn’t be correct to say that Crowley fell in love with Aziraphale at first sight [5], it’s quite possible that he fell at first scent--sunshine and petrichor, lavender and a hint of Holy Fire--but if he had, he didn’t know it at the time. [6] What is certain is that long before he realized it himself, Crowley was desperately enamoured of the angel: infatuated, lovesick, lost, sunk, arse-over-tits, any metaphor you choose, the demon would have accepted it, and what’s worse, wouldn’t have even been ashamed of it, he was that far gone.

No, the problem was this absurd notion of Aziraphale’s. _Friends_ was all very well and good, they’d been friends, or at least _friendly_ , for thousands of years. _Best friends_ was a heady upgrade, but one Crowley was ready to cope with, and more than he had dared to dreamed of. He was even prepared to accept that Aziraphale might love him, in that sort of abstract angelic way, in which a conscientious Principality might choose to observe his duty to love all creatures.

But love in particular? _Romantic_ love?

That was madness. That was obscene. That was … something up with which Crowley simply would not put.

Because Crowley knew very well what he was ( _Hello? Demon?_ ) and more importantly, what he did. Which was _ruin_ things.

Ruin the peace of Heaven and his own connection with Her grace by his inappropriate questions.

Ruin the beauty of the Garden and the humans’ happiness and freedom by selfishly ‘ _making trouble_.’

Ruin every human soul he encountered, by filling their mind and heart with so many petty distractions and aggravations and temptations that there was no room for them to appreciate and share all the goodness that was still in the world.

Ruin lovely morning walks in the park by just being a fucking _demon_ in a world that should be kept safe and clean and _nice_ for any angels that happened to exist in it.

Well, he was already damned (‘ _Unforgivable, that’s what I am_ ’) and, after mucking up Armageddon, probably _double_ -damned, but he’d be triple-damned with a brimstone cherry on top before he’d permit himself to desecrate the angel the way he’d ruined everything else.

No matter what Aziraphale thought he wanted.

So Crowley endured the increasingly affectionate endearments ( _dear_ _one_ , _dearest_ , _sweet_ _boy_ , _darling_ …) The frequent warm looks beneath pale eyelashes. The patted invitations on the sofa cushion, _sit by me dear boy_ , instead of safely ensconced in the armchair across the way. The fluttering touches on the shoulder, the knee, the back of his hand.

By any objective standard, Aziraphale was an utterly inept flirt. That’s what made his attempts so devastatingly _effective_.

It was _killing_ Crowley to ignore, to not react, to pretend he didn’t see. He almost said something in the park this morning. He had been so close to just letting the words fall out of his mouth: _stop this, don’t do this, you don’t want this, not really_ , I _don’t want this, not at the price of_ —

He sat up abruptly. Aziraphale was coming out of the shop, his back still so painfully stiff, his pretty mouth still set in those same grim lines. The angel looked around before locking the door, but his glance slid right over where Crowley was lurking. [7] He set off down the street, with that deceptively leisurely pace that the demon knew could steadily eat up the miles.

Crowley hissed out an expletive, started the engine, and followed. If other drivers cursed and shouted and displayed their manicures, if even the Bentley expressed quizzical displeasure with her choice of songs, he ignored them all and maintained his creeping pace.

Wherever Aziraphale was going, Crowley would be there to watch his back.

~+<0>+~

### Footnotes

1. The parishioners of St. Hugh’s were undoubtedly lovely people, and the church is not to blame for the crimes committed in the names of its patron; nonetheless, if any religious memorial deserved to be bombed into rubble by a stray Nazi bomb, it was surely one dedicated to Little Hugh of Lincoln, whose legend is one of the best-known disseminators of the “blood libel.” That it was destroyed by the adherents of one of the most anti-Semitic of modern ideologies is either ironic or ineffable, depending on one’s point of view.↩

2. The centuries-old eagle-topped lectern had survived, but was later declared ‘missing’. Looted by some ruffian or other, no doubt.↩

3. The kitten whose cries he had heard and mistaken for a child’s was adopted by one of the other wardens and named ‘Angel’ to honor Munro’s notorious obsession. Said Angel lived a long and happy life and earned a reputation as an unparalleled mouser.↩

4. Most animals disliked Crowley, sensing his demonic nature, which was a shame, since he was rather fond of many of them—snakes and ducks, of course, but also birds of prey, any kind of cat, and most goats, deer, and sea mammals. However those species which had evolved as partners to humanity, such as horses and dogs, held him in particular loathing, a sentiment which he cordially returned.↩

5. To start with, snakes simply don’t see that well.↩

6. It had been quite a while since the Fall, and conscious memories of what “love” felt like had been burnt out of every demon since before Time began. Truth to tell, Crowley had long assumed that the sensation that gripped his entire being at every thought of the angel was a peculiar variation on _Gluttony_ , since that was one of the Big Seven he had never previously experienced. It took him an embarrassingly long time (until the humans invented alcoholic beverages, in fact) to realize that no, what he felt for Aziraphale was something quite different indeed.↩

7. For a priceless, gorgeous classic vintage automobile, the Bentley was remarkably clever at projecting a Somebody-Else’s-Problem field effect.↩


	2. Let our candle always burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Crowley? I know that you’ve been following me. You might as well come in.”_  
>  _Oh,_ fuck.  
>   
> The two stories begin to intersect, with the second time the angel met the artist and Crowley getting his first look at the artist's work.  
> Neither goes particularly well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: anxiety attack, sensory overload. 1918 flu pandemic, bombing
> 
> Thanks to burnttongueontea for the beta, and for the evocative description of present-day Shoreditch, which I shamelessly stole. Renewed thanks to my sensitivity readers, to Rokikurama for the fabulous art, and to everyone at the DIWS Discord community, for sponsoring this event, giving great advice, and cheerleading.

_June 1922_

_Parish church of St. Hugh of Lincoln_

_London. Holborn._

_Graeme Munro rather enjoyed working as sexton. Cleaning and maintaining the church and other parish buildings wasn’t_ fun _, exactly, but it was straightforward and satisfying and he was good at it. Mam would have had no cause to be ashamed of him._

_Da… Da would have laughed fit to burst at the title of “sexton”, at his son holding any position with the Established Church, but he would have also been quietly proud to see him give his serious attention to every task, no matter how small or mean. And Da would have loved the grounds, the neat borders and the little graveyard and the trees and flowers of the garth. Sometimes he could feel Da working beside him, scything the grass, trimming the roses, and pulling the weeds from around the grave markers, fingers deep in the rich warm dirt._

_Father Gavin was nothing like Da, being short and bony and humourless; but he was a kind man, and tolerant of Munro’s … peculiarities. He didn’t care if Munro didn’t come in some days until well past noon, nor if he kept polishing the brass through the night, not so long as the work was done in time for Morning Prayer on Sundays._ [8] _He would greet Munro politely when their paths crossed, but kept their conversations brief, and rarely looked too long into his face. When he saw how the Altar Guild ladies would flutter about Munro on Saturday afternoons, pressing food and noise and confusion upon him, Father Gavin took to inviting him for a quiet cuppa back at the Rectory and (once he discovered that Munro could play, and play well at that) sometimes a friendly game of chess._

_But this was a Tuesday, and that meant tending the grounds near the front entrance. It had rained hard the night before, and Munro was busy sweeping clear from the pathways the soaking mess of fallen twigs._ [9] _He picked up a handful of wet leaves and squeezed them in his fist, enjoying the warm wet squelch. Thus pleasantly occupied, he didn’t hear Father Gavin until the rector cleared his throat behind him._

_Munro glanced over his shoulder to see another man standing beside the cleric, before he dropped his eyes back to the ground. “Our sexton Munro, excellent chap,” Father said. “Munro, this is Mr. Fell, he’s come to take a look at some of the older volumes in our library, if you’d be so good as to…”_

_It was the angel._

_Munro knew it the moment he saw the figure before him, despite its disguise as a soft-looking older gentleman with a kind face and white hair. Father Gavin’s words blurred into a buzz of noise, like a mistuned radio. Munro saw a veil drop over the familiar green churchyard, a sheer curtain woven from a memory of blazing darkness, throbbing with impossible colours. The world smelled of vomit and glory and collapsed in on him, like a gentle maelstrom, like the embrace of a thousand swirling knives._

_He collapsed to his knees, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a wordless cry. He couldn’t be sent back to the hospital. He wouldn’t. He … He felt part of himself split off, calmly observing, noting his own racing heart and ragged breathing._

_This… This was not the same? Too much noise, too much light, too much everything, yes, but alongside the need to hide, to seal himself away, the desperate urge to run. If only he could force his legs to move…_

_In that other place, people were talking. The rector apologizing: “_ a veteran, you know, but this hasn’t happened in ever so long… _” And then the angel, those plummy accents instantly recognizable: “_ not at all, my fault entirely, I do believe we have met, briefly, in hospital, must have brought it all back, just give me a moment, I’ve seen this sort of thing before … _”_

 _And then, impossibly, the angel was kneeling before_ him _. Before Munro. In that distant corner of his mind, he wondered about angels with muddy stains on the knees of their trousers, and he wanted to laugh wildly._

_“Mr. Munro. Mr. Munro. I am so terribly sorry about this. I am not going to touch you. But I need you to do something for me.”_

_Anything. Anything. How could he not? It was an angel and Munro was … Munro was nothing. He could do nothing. There was too much Everything. Munro needed Everything to … to … just_ Not.

_The angel was still talking. Gently and calmly, but with an irresistible command. “Thank you, my dear. I would be very grateful if you could look—oh, no, not at me!—just at the ground, there’s a good fellow, and name what you see. You don’t have to speak out loud, not at all, just to yourself would be fine. Just name a few things that you can see.”_

Wet flagstone. Shiny _, Munro thought the words to himself._ Fresh cut grass. Three grey pebbles. One black pebble. Twig, half broken. A shoe. Brown. Muddy _._

 _“Splendid!” the angel congratulated him, as though he had spoken aloud. “You did quite well. Now, what can you hear? Could you name some things that you can hear?” And Munro thought_ an angel talking _, then_ loud squeak and clatter in the street, closer, closer, now gone _, then_ shuffling sounds of feet – the Father? – on the path, going farther away then coming back again _. And the angel then urged him to name things that he could touch, and things that he could smell, and by this time Munro could make sounds that might be words, and he had eased out of his defensive crouch. He still wouldn’t look at the angel, though._

 _“Mr. Munro, I must apologize again, this … this sort of thing doesn’t usually happen, you must understand, I …” This was so ridiculous. An angel sounding …_ flustered _?_

_“Why?” he finally managed to mutter._

_“Er. I have no idea, to be honest. Perhaps … the treatments they were giving you, they affected your perception somehow?”_

_“No. Why… You. That night. You didn’t. Heal me._ Fix _me. Why?” There. The words were out. He shrank back from the angel, prepared for it to blast him with indignant wrath._

_Instead, the angel sounded confused. “Heal you? But you had already recovered from the influenza.”_

_“Brain.” Munro pointed at his head, as if the angel might not know where his brain resided. “Don’t work … like it should. Why you … Not…” he trailed off, having exhausted his ability to summon words._

_“Oh, my dear boy.” The angel jerked its hand forwards, as if to pat his shoulder, before stilling. “You did not need to be healed. You are not sick, nor broken, nor a mistake.”_

_Oh. That was unexpected._

_“The only thing afflicting you at that time was simple_ exhaustion _. Too many years trying to be something you were not.” There was no pity in its voice; just angelic certainty. “You only needed the opportunity to rest—a treatment for which a hospital ward in the middle of a pandemic was not exactly conducive. And, I suppose, something to_ do. _” Munro thought that there might be a fond smile in the angel’s voice. “You aren’t one to laze about, focus on healing, are you? I know your sort.”_

_“Angel…” Munro pleaded. The angel stiffened unmistakably, and Munro cringed. “Excellency? Your Honor? Forgive me, I don’t know ...”_

_“No need. You have done nothing wrong.” Munro wondered how he could have forgotten that this particular angel was also ripped and bleeding inside. He suddenly was no longer afraid. “You may call me Mr. Fell, most people do.”_

_Munro couldn’t. Still, he tried to honor this entity’s apparent desire to appear as simply a man, as ludicrous as that seemed. “Sir.” He tried to kneel, like the sinners on the windows inside the sanctuary, hands clasped in supplication._

_“No. Not to_ me _, my dear. Never to me.”_

_“But …” Munro tried to draw his scattering thoughts together. He had been given a second chance to see an angel. How could he not try to cling to a piece of this, hold it close around himself, a shield for when the world became too bright and noisy once again? “A- a blessing, then. Sir. If you could.”_

_The angel sighed, but not, it seemed, with disappointment. Or if it was, it was only with itself._

_“Very well, then. May I touch you?” Munro nodded, and felt the lightest brush of a soft hand against his forehead. The angel started to say something, hesitated, then started over. “May you never forget that you are_ seen _. Remembered. Cherished. Loved. Because you are exactly how, and who, you were meant to be.” Warmth spread through him, from the tips of the angel’s fingers, easing down his shoulders, his chest, into the very heart of him. “May you perceive the joy and wonder that is hidden from your fellows. May you find peace in sharing your vision. For now, though—” The angel withdrew its hand with a decisive snap. “Sleep. Be restored. And dream of whatever you like best.”_

_Munro awoke in his own flat late the following morning. He had no idea how he had made his way home, but the fact that he was still dressed (except for his shoes) suggested that he had help. There was a note beside him on the pillow, which read “Father says not to come back to work until Thursday. Mr. Fell recommends that you drink water and eat something.”_

_He rubbed his face, wincing a bit at the stubble. He wasn’t particularly hungry (or didn’t think he was, sometimes it was hard to tell), but was loath to ignore any advice from an angel. So he put a kettle on the hob, and opened up a tin of sardines, and sat on one of his salvaged chairs in the living room, staring at his charm-stanes without really seeing them._

_So many of them over the past four years. Shiny pebbles and bits of sparkling glass. Bits of adverts, pictures torn from old newspapers, posters and playbills. Swirls of wire, cast-off hubcaps, feathers and plumes from stray hats, binned boas, shed by the starlings and jays of the City. Pinned to the walls, hanging from the ceiling, scattered over every surface of the room._ Charm-stanes _, luck-stones, he called each one as he shamefacedly smuggled them home to be placed just so; but he might as well have called them_ gowk-stanes _for the fool he’d been to collect them._

 _But now he saw them for what they truly were: Portents. Signs. No, sign_ posts _. Reminders, really._ Reflections in a glass, darkly _; but now it was time to_ see face to face _._[10]

_Munro went over to the empty cable reel he had dragged back to the flat to serve as both table and workbench, and rummaged through the scavenged goods piled on top. He pulled out the bottle of india ink, still two-thirds full, that the parish secretary had cheerfully tossed out when gifted with a fine new Waterman safety pen. (The plume of the accompanying dip pen, a jaunty black-and-scarlet, was tacked next to the coal chute). He carefully emptied the bottle into a bowl, then added nearly a half-pint of the glue he had been using to re-attach the broken spokes to the back of a wooden chair._

_He stirred them together. The inky glue felt heavy and thick, like the cream Mam used to spoon on his porridge in the mornings._

_Shuffling back to his bedroom, he piled up the sturdy wooden crates that served as nightstand and dresser, and climbed atop them, carefully holding the bowl steady. Stretching his right hand, he could almost,_ almost _, reach the topmost right corner of the wall facing his mattress. He brought up the bowl and dipped in his index finger._

_Slowly, carefully, ink and glue gliding smoothly over the rough plaster, Munro sketched out a large black circle. A circle that might almost be the pupil of an enormous inhuman eye._

~+<0>+~

_Present_

_London. Shoreditch_

The Bentley surreptitiously followed Aziraphale until he stopped at the entrance to a restored block of council flats with that whole ‘Addison Act’ aesthetic. Crowley couldn’t recall having been in the neighbourhood before [11], but the type was instantly familiar: rough slums cleared to working-class respectability, now filled with edgy artistic types, where the average rent required at least three professional salaries and one was likely to be charged £20 for a ticket into a “nightclub” that turned out to be someone’s minimalist flat where they’re DJing on their MacBook. [12]

The angel climbed up a few steps to the ground floor entrance, pressed a button, and spoke briefly into the intercom placed next to a discreet brass plaque reading Munro Art Collective. There was a buzz, and Aziraphale turned the knob.

And then simply stood there, holding the door open. Apparently waiting for something. For someone…

“Crowley? I know that you’ve been following me. You might as well come in.”

Oh, _fuck_.

Trying not to look as busted as he felt, the demon slithered out of the Bentley. A quick snap ensured that the automobile wouldn’t be bothered in its definitely illegal parking spot.[13] He jammed his hands into his pockets and slunk up behind Aziraphale, still patiently holding the door. “Wasn’t _following_. Was just … going for a drive, that’s all.”

Aziraphale lifted one eyebrow. “In Shoreditch?”

“Lots of good clubs in Shoreditch, angel.”

“In the middle of the afternoon?”

Crowley didn’t deign to answer, just sauntered past him into a tiny dark entrance hall. Had he been human, he would have needed immediately to shove his sunglasses atop his head, or risk stumbling into a wall; but as he wasn’t, he merely looked around to try and figure out what had compelled a distressed angel to visit this extremely dull set of flats, indistinguishable from thousands of similar buildings throughout London.

The entrance was simple but tidy enough, and obviously redecorated with an eye towards a quasi-Bohemian aesthetic. Aziraphale hummed tunelessly as he went for the stairwell (no lift, of course, that would be too _convenient_ ). Exiting behind him on the third floor, Crowley was surprised to see a small desk jammed into the hallway. A tasteful plaque screwed to the front read **Graeme Munro, c1895 – 1941, Permanent Display**.

A young person with purple and blue striped hair was seated at the desk, furiously scribbling in a sketchbook. They greeted the angel with both familiarity and evident delight.[14] “Mr. Fell! It’s still over a month yet until your usual visit!”

Even Crowley could barely detect the strain behind Aziraphale’s warm smile. “Ah, Mx Baqri, surely I am not such a creature of habit as all that.”

(Both Baqri and Crowley smirked at this response, although to give the kid credit, _they_ at least tried to hide it.)

The angel seemed to take it in good part. “Be that as it may, I wished to show my … friend here the, well, you know, all of it. I think he’d find it quite … illuminating. Were you expecting any other visitors today, or may we take our time?”

Baqri shook their head. “Nobody’s signed up, though you know that Bennie likes to come by after class and lie on the floor and just _stare_ at the Thing.” (The capital ‘T’ was clearly audible here.) “Says it _talks_ to her, though after three years, I’ve never heard a peep out of it.” They shuddered. “Not sure I’d want to know what it’d have to say, t’be honest. Be like having that woman in _Guernica_ , y’know, the one with the torch, turn her head and start screaming at you. Spooky, is what I’m sayin’.”

Crowley perked up a bit.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose at the demon, but with an air of immense fondness. Baqri looked back and forth between the pair, speculation dancing in their eyes. The angel frowned again, this time a little more sternly, and said, “Well, then, best get to it, before Ms Benham comes by to, er, commune. Shall we?”

Baqri got up and produced an old-fashioned-looking key, unlocked the door behind them, and gestured for Aziraphale and Crowley to proceed. Crowley went through first, but glanced back over his shoulder in time to catch the kid mouthing _HAWT_ to the angel, which produced a swell of muddled giddiness, despair, and frustration so intense that he forgot to take in his surroundings until he was several steps into the room.

His first impression was an unnerving feeling of being _watched_.

Once Aziraphale followed him in and snapped on the gas lighting, the demon realized what caused that impression. The small room (apparently preserved from some between-the-Wars original) boasted little more in the way of furniture than an improvised table with a hob for cooking, a sink, a handful of mismatched chairs, and what looked like several packing crates covered with scrap fabric and paneling. But every single horizontal surface, and most of the vertical ones, was crammed full of _Stuff_ to the extent that it made A. Z. Fell’s bookshop look positively minimalist.

Some of it was the normal human variety of clutter: dishes and papers and tools and fastenings and indeterminate thingamaboblings [15] that properly belonged in a drawer labelled “Misc.”, jamming up the works every time you tried to open it. But most of it ...

Broken glass, chipped marbles, globs of crystals embedded in macadam, gleaming bits of driftglass and shell, more than a few shiny buttons glittered along sills, countertops, skirting boards, even strung on fishline, all arranged in careful geometric patterns. Paper darts, toy aircraft, pictures of wings, and feathers of every color and size hung from the ceiling. Hubcaps, bicycle wheels, hoops and spirals, in wood, rubber, every sort of metal were propped from any hook that could hold them.

And, more than anything else, _eyes_. Eyes everywhere: photographs, drawings, paintings, cartoons, knotholes, any circle with the suggestion of a pupil. Eyes of every color, no color, made of paper, cloth, wood, and wire. Eyes on the walls, the furniture, the windows, even the bloody ceiling.

It _should_ have been terrifically creepy… and it was. But also, somehow, it _wasn’t_.

Despite having never been anywhere like it, Crowley found it all oddly … _familiar_. Soothing, even. And that made him more uneasy than anything else.

He jammed the tips of his fingers into his pockets and affected an air of insouciance. “Munro Collective, eh? So, who was this Munro fellow when he was at home?” He gave an exaggerated roll of his shoulders, meant to indicate the entirety of the room. “Aside from a huge fan of rubbish, I mean?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped. “Don’t be crass, dear. I know that _you_ know better.” He wandered over to the sink to ponder a picture of an enlarged falcon’s eye, cut from a newspaper if the greyscale print and yellowing cheap paper were anything to judge by. “Graeme Munro was … just a person, really. That is to say, he was a self-taught artist, conscientious sexton, veteran of the Great War, proud Scot, loving son, loyal friend … But not a saint, not by any means, nor much of a sinner, either. Just a human, doing the best that he could, of no particular import to either Heaven nor Hell, except that like all humans he was uniquely himself, and all the more precious for it.” The angel clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels.

Crowley waited for a moment, but Aziraphale seemed disinclined to expand on the topic. “And you come into this how?” he finally prodded.

“I met him, briefly. Twice. The first time I had been instructed to save the life of a particular young woman suffering from the influenza – this was in 1919, you know, the pandemic—”

“—bloody Pestilence, couldn’t just _stay_ retired—”

“Quite. And I couldn’t bring myself to heal only the one person, no matter what great things Heaven foresaw in her future. Not when there was an entire hospital filled with the sick and dying, not after I had been so drastically … _constrained_ during the previous hostilities, it didn’t seem _bearable_ …”

“’Course you couldn’t, angel. Not and still be you.” The demon permitted himself a sliver of a smile. “So howdja explain healing everybody to Upstairs?”

Aziraphale looked pleased with himself, remembering. “Well, it seemed to me that it might be a bit … _pointed_ , you know, to single out an individual, bound to create the wrong sort of attention. Better to bury the objective, as it were, in a broader miracle, not to mention fostering a sense of hope and faith during a very grim time … Heaven wasn’t best pleased with me, but they couldn’t accuse me of disobedience, precisely, and there was a fair amount of good press.”

“Right. So you healed Munro of the influenza. Why did you look him up later?”

“Oh!” The angel shook his head. “He didn’t have the influenza. Well, he _did_ , but he’d already recovered. He was in hospital for … it was all a dreadful misunderstanding, I’m afraid. I suppose he was there for being … different.”

“Eh?” Crowley was used to the savage ignorance of humanity, but some things still shocked him. He was glad (not for the first time) that he had mostly napped through the early decades of the last century, if England was still treating “difference” as “disease.” [16]

“You’ve seen it any number of times, I’m sure. The ones who perceive, think, interact with the world, outside of the typical manner. Like, oh, Moses, for an example. And Michelangelo. And that brave young Swedish girl …”

“Autistic, y’mean?”

“Oh, Crowley. You _know_ I can’t keep up with the fashions in human diagnostic terminology.” Aziraphale scowled. “At any rate, there was nothing … _malicious_ about it. The staff were genuinely trying to _cure_ him. They had confused his normal behaviour with something quite different, an actual mental illness, and were accidentally making his life even more difficult. I simply, well, provided some shielding from their well-meaning meddling, and maybe a little push that he might find himself in a better situation. Hardly a miracle at all, really. He was very much on the path to getting there on his own, anyhow.”

The demon considered all this. It sounded perfectly plausible, and very much like something the angel would do. Very much like something the angel _had_ done, thousands of times, perhaps hundreds of thousands of times, over the span of their long residence on earth. A small miracle of protection, a gesture of compassion, one that might totally change the path of a human life, but hardly register in an ethereal memory at all.

Certainly nothing to build an “art collective” about, whatever that meant. Nor to be looking so bloody _sad_ about the whole thing.

“And I didn’t _look him up later_ ,” Aziraphale was continuing. “It was entirely a coincidence. I had heard rumours that a certain church in Holborn had a small collection of Georgian esoteric literature, and I wanted to take a look—and goodness gracious, Crowley!” The angel’s eyes suddenly shone with bibliophilic ecstasy. “Can you imagine? They had several fine printings of Manoah Sibley’s sermons and, I am not making this up, a first edition of _The Discoverie of Witchcraft_! [17] I simply could not believe it when I saw it, shoved in a corner like that, but I—”

“Art Boy, angel,” Crowley interrupted.

“Ah, of course.” Aziraphale sighed, clearly more eager to discuss textual treasures than continue on with his account. “It turns out that Mr. Munro was employed as sexton at this parish, and, well, he, er, _recognized_ me.”

“From the hospital?”

“Yes, but also … as an _angel_.”

Crowley whistled. “Awkward, that.”

“Indeed. It gave him quite a nasty turn, I’m afraid.” The angel looked abashed. “And then … he requested a _blessing_. Goodness, Crowley, I haven’t been asked for a proper blessing for centuries, not formally, and certainly not just … in the middle of the pavement, I hardly knew _what_ to say, but he seemed happy enough, thank … well, thank Her, I suppose.”

 _More like thanks to_ you _,_ the demon thought, but did not say. Aloud he asked, “And all this,” waving vaguely about, “was what he wanted?”

“Dear me, no. That didn’t come until, hmm, twenty or so years later.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley closed his eyes behind his sunglasses and took a deep breath that his corporation may not have needed, but his sanity surely did. “For someone who reads literally all of the time, did you ever realize that you are very _very_ bad at telling a story?”

The angel let out an indignant huff. “You asked me about Mr. Munro. I’m afraid that real lives very rarely organize themselves tidily around a classical narrative structure.”

“All right, angel.” Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his dark glasses. “So. _Where_ did all this come from, _why_ does it have Munro’s name on it, and _what_ in the name of good Scotch whiskey does it have to do with you?”

“I was about to explain all that,” Aziraphale began testily, but hurried on as the atmosphere positively coagulated around the demon. “Apparently at some point Mr. Munro began to experiment with, um, I believe the term is ‘outsider art.’ First with found objects, as you see here, but he soon moved on to paint. Or, better, collage. Or … well, I don’t know, really, I didn’t even learn about any of this until after his death, but the fact of the matter is he created the most … _astonishing_ mural, it’s in the other room, I felt obligated to preserve it, you’ll understand when you see it.”

Crowley thought that he understood already. The angel had always had a soft spot for encouraging young artists, writers, and musicians, who didn’t quite fit into the prevailing academic establishment. “But how did you find out? You said that you never saw him again.”

“Nor did I.” Aziraphale fiddled with his ring and looked away. “But … you remember the Blitz. And … the church that … the German bomber that was _thrown off course_ …”

“Wait. Wait.” The demon frowned with the effort to remember. “You said he was at …”

“Little St Hugh’s, yes. In Holborn.”

“ _Shit._ Shit _fuck_ shit. Angel, I’m positive there was no one else at that church, aside from those Nazis, and us of course, I’d _swear_ on it …”

“No, no, my dear! He wasn’t there! But I thought I’d better pop round later, just to make sure, you know, and that’s when I learned that he had been on search and rescue that night, and that … well, these things did happen, in wartime, and … No. Absolutely _not_.”

To Crowley’s utter shock, he felt warm fingers close around his wrists and firmly pull his fists out his hair, where they had been busy digging into the roots.

“It was _not_ your fault, dearest! Thousands and thousands of people died in those raids, and the responsibility lies solely with those who dropped the bombs, and those who ordered them to do it!” Aziraphale was speaking so passionately, and gazing so fiercely, that he probably didn’t even realize that he was still holding Crowley’s hands, thumbs rubbing soft little circles on the inside of his wrists. For his part, the demon certainly wasn’t going to remind him. “If you hadn’t diverted that aeroplane, somewhere, some _one_ else would just have been the victim, I won’t have you taking the blame, I won’t _hear_ of it!”

“All right, all right, calm down angel, it’s fine, I’m fine.” Crowley shook himself slightly and forced himself to stop gawping at the angel’s pretty flushed cheeks and blazing eyes. “I’ve done lotta worse things over the years. Hardly a blip.”

“It was _not_ a—” Aziraphale finally noticed that Crowley was trying gently to tug his hands away. He blushed even pinker, released his grip, and looked away for a moment. “Anyways, I went to check on Munro, found out what happened, heard mention of this artwork, and … well, once I saw it, I … couldn’t let it be destroyed. So, I bought the building.”

Crowley boggled. Again.

“I _do_ have funds, dear,” the angel said primly.

“S’not that, I _know_ , but these were _council_ flats …”

“The appropriate authorities were very satisfied with the set of buildings I offered in exchange. At least until they completely forgot about the entire situation.”

Crowley couldn’t entirely suppress his smirk at that touch of bastardry.

“I really hadn’t the faintest notion what to do with it, I must confess,” Aziraphale continued. “But I ran into one of the other residents—no, I did _not_ turn them out, what do you take me for?—and it just so happens that he was a design student and had struck up a friendship with Munro. We got to chatting; he was terribly impressed with Munro’s work, kept banging on about Cubism, and Miró _,_ and Kandinsky, and the cost of workspace in London, and, well, now there’s the Collective. Ten subsidized flats for art students, and the top floor given over to studio space. They have an annual show as well, and I’m pleased to say that it has attracted some notice over the years. Mx Baqri, for example, does the most _remarkable_ things with pool noodles and paper mâché.” He wrung his hands, a little nervously. “I confess that most of the members … well, art is a difficult way to make a living, is it not? They move on after a few years, but are all the happier for having made the attempt. Something to look back at with satisfaction. Something, I do hope, that allows them to carry their own unique vision for the rest of their lives. I think … no, I am rather sure that Graeme Munro would have been pleased.”

By this point, Crowley was leaning against the door, the only flat surface in the room relatively free of decoration. His arms were crossed against his chest, and he didn’t even bother to hide the fondness in his expression. The whole set-up was so very typical of his angel: fussy and overcomplicated and infinitely _kind_ , and Crowley wanted to infiltrate Sotheby’s right now to make the products of the Munro Art Collective the most sought-after modern art in Europe.

Obviously, he didn’t say a word of any of this.

Instead, he pursed his lips and said, “Sounds like a bit of a diddle, t’be honest. But if you wanted a hobby, there’s more pointless things you could be doing.” He tilted his head in consideration. “Still don’t know why you felt the need to march up here and stare at this collection of bits ‘n’ bobs, though.”

Aziraphale nodded. “All of this is very tentative, and not very coherent. It’s only interesting insofar as it illustrates Munro’s artistic progress.” He crossed the room to the other door. “But it’s not what I … what _anyone_ really comes here to see.” Opening the door, he gestured politely. “After you.”

~+<0>+~

### Footnotes

8. Munro felt duty-bound to attend the service, despite his lingering reservations about incense and bishops and whatnot. He did like the hymns, however; he hadn’t sung out loud in company, not since a fellow soldier bluntly informed him that the best way to get God to _actually_ save the King would be to stop his _bloody tone-deaf caterwauling about it_ , but he liked to feel their stately rhythms vibrating through the floors and walls near the pipe organ.↩

9. If he paused here and there to pick up an earthworm, trapped and drying on the stones, and placed it safely back on the damp earth, that was nobody’s business but his own, was it?↩

10. I Corinthians 13:12. All those Morning Prayers must be rubbing off on him.↩

11. At least not in the last century or so. Crowley had lived in London a _long_ time.↩

12. Crowley did not invent gentrification, but he deeply admired the process on a professional level.↩

13. Well, probably “bothered”, but certainly not “damaged.” He had to allow the old girl an opportunity for some fun, after all.↩

14. The only valid response to the sight of Aziraphale, if you were to ask Crowley.↩

15. _Not_ “devices.” Those had a very precise description after all, and the patent papers to prove it.↩

16. He probably shouldn’t have been. And, after all, it was a decided improvement from “different” being equated with “demonic.”↩

17. Reginald Scot, 1584. An early sceptical treatise, notable for containing the first detailed discussion of the production of illusions and stage magic. Aziraphale owned three different editions, but could always use another.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's on the other side of that door?  
> Everybody gets to see on Monday. (Spoiler: It's GORGEOUS)


	3. Still think of me the way you've come to think of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley scrambled for something to say. “He … the artist saw you.”_  
>  _“Yes, I told you—“_  
>  _“No, I mean he SAW you. You were SEEN. That’s … that’s your True Form.”_  
>   
>  The artist's work is revealed. Crowley is mightily impressed. Aziraphale is unexpectedly depressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! I am so excited to finally be able to include Rokikurama's incredible artwork! (Be sure to click through, so you can zoom in on the amazing details) Thank you, thank you, thank you for such an inspirational piece, and for working with me through the entire process of writing this fic!  
> Thank you again to my sensitivity readers, and to burnttongueontea, for the speedy and thorough beta!  
> Chapter content warnings: mention of war casualties, brief description of death by influenza, autistic burnout, description of eldritch True Form including multiple eyes.

_January 1919_

_Hospital of St. George, London_

_It was two months after the angel’s visit that Captain Farrow finally tracked Graeme Munro down._

_He would have been easier to find, Munro supposed, if the hospital had allowed him to talk to the newspapers. The hullabaloo over ‘The Miracle at St. George’—where during the plague’s deadliest month, there had been so few losses of patients or staff, where over one inexplicable night, every single victim of the influenza, even those with death rattling in their throats, had completely recovered by morning—had already died down weeks ago. Still, he imagined that the reporters would’ve come running if they’d heard that one of the patients claimed (insisted, exulted) to have seen an angel that night._

_But the doctors and nurses were too protective of a boy so mentally fragile to throw him to the ravenous teeth of the press. After all, Munro hadn’t really recovered, not like the influenza patients. Oh, he’d improved, no question; how could he not? He defied_ anyone _, once they had been permitted to witness the awful wild glory of that heavenly Grace, privileged to glimpse the aching echoing depths of that celestial sorrow, to simply lie abed unchanged, like a lump of senseless clay._

_So the next morning, as nurses rushed about, and doctors studied charts, mystified by a hospital suddenly bursting with perfectly healthy individuals… Graeme Munro sat up in his bed._

_He didn’t force his overwhelmed muscles and bones to move. He didn’t command his anxious mind to still. He simply let the transcendent terrifying vision of wondrous Light fill his memory, his senses, until there was no room for anything else. Then he permitted himself to do what was necessary. And what he needed, it turned out, was to sit up. To eat. To pay attention to the world around him. And to have a reason to keep himself a part of it._

_Back when he’d first signed up for the Army—that was before Belgium, before even a shot had been fired—he’d thought it would be a fine thing for a young lad newly alone. Everyone knew the Army was a grand place for rules, and schedules, and deciding for you what to eat and wear and think. He thought it would give him the structure he craved, that he’d never been able to build for himself._

_He’d been a fool._

_There’d been a structure, well and sure, but quick enough it became a cage. The food was plentiful, true, but too often too pasty or too sharp to chew and swallow. The clothes he had to wear were scratchy, oddly bunched in the wrong places, and strangling around the throat. Worst of all was to be never, ever, alone; always someone, so_ many _someones, with their noises and smells and warmth and confusing demands, around him, intruding on him, insisting on a response._

 _But he was a soldier, now. King and country were counting on him! More important, his mates needed him. They didn’t complain about the boots and the grub and the … well, they_ did _, of course, but as far as he could tell it was in a good-humoured sort of way, like it was no big deal, so Munro sucked it up and shoved it down and got on with the job as well._

 _And he was doing fine. He_ was _._

_Until, all of a sudden, he wasn’t._

_He didn’t even know what had set it off. But it wasn’t the shells, and it wasn’t the explosions. Maybe it was when they brought in Davies, still clutching a letter from his pretty Wren, his other hand scrabbling at where his legs used to be. Maybe it was when Miller, then Burns, then Tuttle, complained of sore throats and headaches in the morning, began coughing by teatime, and by sunset had turned that telltale deadly lavender, blue from the ears to the lips to the chest, that meant they’d be gone before the morning._

_But maybe it wasn’t anything so dramatic. Maybe it was just one too many Welsh rarebits for supper, melted cheese lukewarm and paste-like, bready bits charred too crisp to chew. He couldn’t say for sure._

_But there came the morning when the bugle blared, and Munro just … didn’t move. His brain could see the motions, his fingers twitched to perform them: feet on floor, shirt and trousers, splash face and shave, pull up the blanket, socks and boots (oh, no, not the bloody boots) … but there was no way he could command his body to do more._

_And then the corporal came and shouted, then the lieutenant came and demanded, then finally Captain Farrow came and crisply inquired, and Munro lay there still, fingers twitching against the blanket, eyes fixed on his feet, and not a single word could he squeeze from his throat._

_Not even when two of his mates dragged him from the bed by the armpits, and the shock of those hands broke the last of his command over himself. He collapsed to the ground, squatting and rocking with fingertips tightly pressing against the flaps of his ears._

_They called it “shell shock” and followed the latest orders to send him Ypres, to ‘_ treatment in the forward area’ _, where he could be accustomed to the din of battle. Where he could succumb to la_ bloody _grippe, and mustered back to London over his insistence that he rejoin his unit. Where he could recover, but never be released, trapped in that cursed hospital ward, without family, without mates, without orders or purpose or meaning, with nothing to do but lie in his cot, watching and listening to pointless death all around him._

_Thinking over what Mam had called his “howling-fits.” Remembering all the times Da had found him “caught in a daze.” Worrying that perhaps there had always been a weakness within, a wrongness that finally snapped and broke when he tried to take on the proper duties of a man._

_But Munro was sitting up now, wasn’t he? He could stand, he could walk, he could carry loads; not so heavy as his old pack, maybe, not after so many weeks abed, but he had two good arms and the restored will to use them. And the sickness didn’t stop in the rest of Britain, not just because so many had been healed in one night. Indeed, having gained a reputation for miracles, St. George found itself flooded with the most desperate cases from other hospitals; and while none of the staff succumbed to the influenza for the remainder of its dreadful sway, that didn’t mean they suddenly gained the strength or stamina to care for thrice as many patients as the rules should have permitted._

_So the nurses were glad to let Munro take his turn at emptying bedpans, bathing sweaty bodies, carrying soiled sheets to the laundry, and similar chores. If he was no good at chatting with his fellow patients, no one minded; they weren’t in this ward for the company. In return, the staff allowed Munro little privileges: tucking his cot against the wall, for the illusion of safety; loosening the collars of his uniform shirt; even sneaking him bits of their own dinners, a welcome relief from the dreadful hospital slop. They stopped looking at him with pity and contempt, and almost adopted him as a mascot; and they listened and nodded whenever he spoke of the angel._

_Then one morning Nurse Danvers (she was Munro’s favourite, with her reddish brown hair that reminded him of his Mam) came over with a smile to rival any angel’s, to tell him that he had a visitor._

_It turned out that there had been a mix-up with the paperwork_[18] _and Captain Farrow had been searching for him almost since he had landed in England._[19] _With bewildering swiftness, Munro had found himself released to his former commanding officer’s care, and provided with a respectable position as sexton to a church held by some sort of cousin to the captain (“Favouritism, my near hind hoof, this country owes all of you more than that pittance of a pension; and if my position as a gentleman can’t provide an honest soldier with honest work, what the hell is it good for?”) and a small room all to himself in a block of flats nearby. Within the year, the new Housing Act provided him with two whole rooms in a brand new council estate, with a kitchen and laundry and bath shared with only three other lodgers, and a coal fireplace and a hob by the sink that was all his own._

_The rooms came unfurnished, but Munro had taken to keeping his eye out for useful items on the walk home: a chair with a broken leg, a mattress leaking a bit out of one corner, cracked china, sturdy wooden boxes; all of these could be cleaned and mended and re-purposed to make a comfortable sort of home. His wages paid for clean soft clothes, only slightly patched, fine new boots to keep out the rain and mud, and all the porridge and tea a man could want, with an occasional slice of bacon or even an orange for a treat._

_It was a good life, a useful and busy life, and Munro was content. There was little room for luxuries, but he had the papers (only a day or two late) and a set of second-hand tools from the parish, to fix up his salvaged treasures by gaslight._

_Then one morning his attention was caught by a tattered movie poster peeling off an alley wall. The image showed a popular film actress in severe close-up, all her face in shadow except for one of the blue eyes that had made her famous. That single luminous eye shimmered in Munro’s thoughts all day long as he went through his tasks, sweeping the floors, dusting the pews, polishing the elaborate carved paneling, digging the melted candlewax out of the latticework of the rood screen._

_On the way home (after a surreptitious glance around), he carefully tore the face off the wall and concealed the scrap beneath his coat. He scarcely waited for his tea to boil before he had taken it out and smoothed it against his worktable, trimming round and round until he had isolated the eye in a perfect circle. He looked at it for a long moment, wondering why it compelled him so. Then he shrugged, and tacked it next to the door, where it would be the last thing he saw before leaving every morning._

_That was the first._

~+<0>+~

_Present_

_London, Shoreditch._

Crowley had thought he had a pretty good idea of what to expect when he went through that door. Aziraphale had just name-dropped a few comparable artists, which helped, and the angel’s taste might not match the demon’s but Aziraphale wasn’t a _Philistine_ , after all.[20]

Crowley hadn’t been prepared at all.

The room was nearly empty: nothing but a mattress on the floor in one corner, and a few packing crates lined up against the near wall, presumably for visitors to sit upon. The entirety of the far wall was taken up by an enormous mural.

At first glance, it looked like nothing so much as a chaotic jumble of lines and shapes, splattered with random colors against peeling plaster and brick. A moment’s perusal quickly resolved it into something more coherent, if no less pulsing with energy. The thrumming black outlines varied between a flickering wire, thin as a whisper, and a creamy thick visceral rope, limning a kaleidoscope of shapes and swirls, frozen in mid-spin. Eyes of every style blinked above and below and between the lines, vibrating with vivid colors sprinkled and smeared and stained, frenetic as neon, calming as tea; and wings fluttered feathers carved from fabric and ribbon and pages torn from books. The whole glittered and gleamed and glowed with gilding, bits of rusted metal, and sparkling shards of glass.

Crowley’s mental word-hoard was forced to go back to the most original, literal definitions of any available adjectives to convey the impact of that astonishing piece. It was _terrific_. It was _awful_. It was _stunning_. It was _sublime_.

It was possibly the most beautiful artwork that Crowley had ever seen.

Not least because the subject was the most beautiful being that he had ever seen; more beautiful than even the dim memory of Her Face from the Time Before, because _this_ face, _this_ being, was warm and kind and clever and self-indulgent and sometimes downright selfish and even a bit of a bastard and _his_.

To his right, Aziraphale sat down heavily upon one of the crates. He abandoned his customary perfect posture to lean his head back against the wall, and stared at the mural like someone who would very much prefer to be looking at anything else.

Crowley scrambled for something to say. “He … the artist saw you.”

“Yes, I told you—“

“No, I mean he _SAW_ you. You were _SEEN_. That’s … that’s your True Form.” [21]

“As close as it could be depicted in three dimensions [22], with the materials available. Yes.”

The demon squinted at the paint. “ _Two_ dimensions, angel.”

“Oh, Crowley. Always dancing so fast over the surface that you never take the time to look deep within.” Aziraphale _snapped_ down, then reached out with the first two fingers of his right hand, as if to hook them into the painting. Then he slowly pulled his arm back, and the mural _stretched_ with the gesture; overlapping layers of paint and collage expanding into the room, forming a glowing, lacy palimpsest zigzagging in ethereal geometries almost to where they were seated.

Both of Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “How the He- I mean, how on _Earth_ did Art Boy manage _that_? He shouldn’t have been able even to see what he was doing.”

“I have no idea, my dear,” the angel admitted. “By all accounts it took him many years. To be honest, I’m not sure it was quite finished. There are some areas left … incomplete, although at the time … well, that’s not important now, is it?” He released the painting gently, and it sank back against the wall.

Together, they continued to gaze at the mural in silence. Crowley was giving serious thought as to whether there was some way he could possibly smuggle his luxurious king-sized bed into this room each night, so he could fall asleep in rapt contemplation of the image of his angel. [23] Perhaps he could extend it out as well, pull it around himself, doze securely wrapped in Aziraphale…

He turned to his companion to ask his thoughts about relocating the painting, purely as a preservation measure of course, when Aziraphale’s drawn, tight expression sent the demon searching for an explanation. He seized immediately upon the hazard always in the forefront of his worries: “Was Heaven, I dunno, _okay_ with all this, y’know, people being able to … see you like that?”

“They didn’t know about it at the time. I did not know either, remember. Once I found out ...” Aziraphale puffed out a sigh. “Well. That _is_ part of my remit, after all. Acting as an inspiration to artists, poets, musicians. Drawing human minds towards contemplation of Heavenly matters.” His eyes glinted with some bitterness. “There are certainly enough depictions of Gabriel and Michael in the world.”

Too many, if you asked Crowley. “But … you don’t like it.” This wasn’t a question.

“I don’t _dis_ like it, my dear. It is what— _who_ —I am.” The angel straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. “I simply prefer my corporeal manifestation for Earthly business, that’s all. It has been a long time since I’ve needed access to most of my more … metaphysical … aspects, and it is, well, _easier_ to … Besides, the humans tend to find that form appalling. You heard Mx Baqri. _Creepy_ , she said.”

Crowley looked about a room that was nothing more nor less than a shrine to an angel’s exceedingly uncanny image. “Yeah. I can tell they hate it.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, but he _had_ to know. [24] “So why _do_ you keep coming here, then? I mean, you’ve got to know what you look like.”

“Well, I do need to keep an eye on the Collective, and …” Crowley shook his head, not buying the excuse for a second. Aziraphale gave him the faintest, most hopeless little smile. “Very well. It’s a … a reminder, I suppose. When … when I become too much. _Feel_ too much. I come here, and I remember … I remember …”

Crowley maintained an encouraging silence.

“I remember that _you_ don’t like it.”

The demon’s jaw dropped. “Wot.”

“ _You_ don’t like it.” The angel’s voice was almost inaudible. “When I see this,” he waved at the painting, “it reminds me that … that you prefer me to be … _soft_.” He looked up at the mural again and smiled sadly. “Silly. Naïve. A damsel in need of rescue. All lacy cravats and pink satin shoes, and so forth. Not … not _that_.”

“Angel …” Crowley began, then stopped.

“It’s all right, Crowley. I do enjoy it, after all. Very much. I still have the shoes, you know,” and the chuckle that accompanied that comment, only the tiniest bit forced, damn near broke the demon. “It comes very naturally to me, all of…” he gestured in such a way as to encompass his old-fashioned, middle-aged, softly rounded corporation. “This. It always has. It isn’t … _false_.” He met the demon’s eyes. “It just isn’t … _everything_.”

“I _know_ that!” Crowley forcefully insisted. “You think that I _don’t_?”

“Oh, no, my dear fellow. Of course you do. And it’s very ki-, er, _accommodating_ of you, to put up with it. But it cannot be pleasant for you, I suppose, to see … well, to see something very similar to your last sight of Heaven, as it were.” The angel looked apologetic. “For all either of us knows, it _was_. I could very well have been the entity that expelled you, after all. I was assigned to … ‘deal with’ … more than one of my siblings. That was the sort of thing that I had been created to do, after all.” [25]

~+<0>+~

### Footnotes

18. If there was one thing military service had taught Graeme Munro, it was that there was _always_ a mixup in the paperwork.↩

19. “He might be an odd duck,” the captain had said to the clerks searching the hospital intake records, “but the Army owes him better than to lose him.” He glared in a way that suggested that if he weren’t such a gentleman, he’d be pounding on their desks. “Official ranks and titles be damned, he was the best quartermaster any officer could want, and probably saved as many lives as the artillery.”↩

20. Aziraphale had _been_ a Philistine, but that was thousands of years ago, and it was mostly due to the exquisite way they had with shrimp. Also, he had been terrifically excited about the newly-developed alphabetic-writing-thingy that all the coastal peoples were into, which Crowley had been sure would never catch on.↩

21. By this point, Crowley had also realized that the baubles and gewgaws in the other room were a sketchy, tentative attempt at depicting the same thing, and he shied away from considering what it meant that he had felt so familiar and _comfortable_ with basically standing inside of an angel’s metaphysical essence.↩

22. Aziraphale’s actual True Form extends through five or six dimensions, depending on how one counts. At last check, physicists have identified at least twenty-three possible dimensions—most of them, admittedly, crumpled and twisted about the others—so it was a minor matter for an ethereal or occult entity to occupy half a dozen, and still have plenty of dimensions left over to store a change of clothing and a picnic lunch.↩

23. Not that he didn’t do that already. Crowley, as has been noted, had an extremely powerful imagination.↩

24. His curiosity was going to get him into real trouble someday.↩

25. When principality duty’s to be done / (To be done) / An angel’s lot is not a happy one.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, these idiots!  
> Don't worry, I promise a happy ending on Thursday!


	4. Let us never lose the lessons we have learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Honestly, Crowley, there’s no need to be so dramatic!” the angel finally snapped. “You have made it perfectly clear what you think of me!”_   
>  _The demon’s eyes snapped open, as round as dinner plates. “Wot? Er… You know?”_
> 
> Shakespeare, confessions, revelations, and (of course) a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe that this is already over! So much love to my artist, Rokikurama; my beta-reader, burnttongueontea (and special pinch-beta-ing on the True Forms section from JoyAndOtherStories and elf_on_the_shelf); sensitivity readers Z A Dusk and anonymous; and the mods and community of the DIWS RBB, for trouble-shooting, coding, and cheerleading. You are all the best!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: description of 1918 hospital ward, influenza treatment, period-typical psychiatric treatment, including brief description of electroshock therapy, description of eldritch True Forms, including multiple eyes, True Form sex – well, more like metaphysical intense snuggling

_October 1918_

_Hospital of St. George, London_

_Graeme Munro lay awake in the dark, wondering if he should tell anybody about the angel._

_Not that anybody would believe him, even if he did. After all, everyone knew why he was in this hospital, why he’d been there for months. His charts said it was_ la grippe—influenza _, that was what the papers called it_ — _but that was only the ‘official’ reason he had been shipped back to London from that hellhole of a field hospital near Ypres. He’d been one of the lucky ones, fully recovered even before his ship had pulled into the docks. But nobody had once suggested that he’d be released. Not while he still suffered from bouts of paralysis so severe that he couldn’t lift his spoon to feed himself, couldn’t even push the blankets off his overheated chest. Certainly not while he still had his “spells,” pressed against the wall, palms sealing his ears, unable to move or speak._

_The doctors and nurses all whispered “shell shock” at each other, whether in sympathy or contempt he couldn’t tell. But it hadn’t been the War that did for him. Not really. He wasn’t really near the worst of it, most of the time. Not like the poor bastards at the Front. He’d been in the trenches, true enough, but well behind the lines, ever since Captain Farrow had discovered he’d a tidy head for numbers and a dab hand for scrounging up the needful._

_(‘_ Logistics _’, the Captain called it, in that prissy Southern way. How Da would have laughed at that; how Mam would have slapped back at him with her apron. Nae, best not to be thinking of his folks right now. Not about how it had been of no mind to them, never even a hint of dismay, that he’d been ‘_ a wee bit fae-touched _’, prone to stay up through the night, head stuck deep in a knotty problem; or to lie abed half the day, flummoxed by the sheer impossibility of trousers. Sometimes he’d be lost in the rhythmic screeches of gulls or slap of the waves, or dazzled by the glints of sunlight on sea or wet stone; but Da would lightly touch his shoulder, Mam would softly hum a familiar tune, and bring him back to himself._

_Don’t think. Don’t remember. Not with them long since called home to the Lord. Not with him in this narrow scratchy cot, in this crowded overheated ward, filled with the sounds of coughing and moaning, the maddening squeak of crepe soles on linoleum floors, the harsh buzzing beneath the ticking of clock on the wall, everywhere the sharp smell of bleach that burned the back of his throat, but never seemed to conceal the sour stink of sick._

_Munro felt his mind fracture, break like a frayed necklace tugged on too hard, the thoughts scattered on the floor and rolling away like beads. This kept happening since the faradization, when they had taped those cold wires to his face. It was disorienting and had_ hurt _, but at least it broke the suffocating weight of anxious spiraling that kept him mute and pinned and helpless. He didn’t know which one was worse, really. It was too hard to follow that thought._

 _He traced instead the skittering bead of awareness that had first alerted him to the angel’s presence. Not that he’d ever seen an angel before, but it was hard to mistake that gentle, piercing transcendent …_ Light _, he supposed was the word for it, although he could hardly see it, not several floors below … for anything other than a servant of the Lord. It had arrived shortly after sunset, and he had been tracking its progress for hours now. It had been gradually drifting upwards, meandering through every floor, pausing so frequently that it surely must have been stopping at every ward, every cot. What would an angel be bringing to this hospital, so overwhelmed by weariness and pain and death? Words of admonishment, calls to repentance, like the harsh sermons in the kirk of his youth? A comforting mercy, promising welcome to the dying from beloved family and friends who’d gone before, a foretaste of the blessed release from the pains of this world, the Heaven of his Mam’s prayers?_

_He wondered if the angel had met his Mam. He smiled a little at the idea of asking. He put his arms around his chest and hugged himself tight, rocking slightly back and forth. Securely gathered back in his body once again, he waited for the angel._

_He couldn’t possibly have prepared himself for its arrival._

_He wondered for a moment if he had truly gone insane, as mad as the doctors insisted. But he couldn’t believe it. This,_ this _, was more real than anything, real enough to make everything else he’d ever felt seem like a shadow cast against the wall._

_The angel brought silence in its wake, the most deafening silence Munro had ever experienced; a silence so loud that it overwhelmed the wretched endless coughing and wheezing and piteous moaning of the sick, stilled the ceaseless mechanical hum and static until he could have wept with relief. There was a subtle rhythm, a distant melody to that silence, as if it were produced by a harmony too high and subtle for mortal ears. And then the cold! The entire ward seemed frozen with the pure, clear, icy stillness of the stars, which burned a fiery trail through his muscles and veins and nerves._

_Yet all of this was as nothing compared to the light. Or Light, perhaps, since no other illumination could ever again possibly be worthy of the word. Gone forever were the images from Christmas songs and holiday adverts, pale feeble pretenders with their homely glowing halos. This angel’s radiant corona scattered blinding bolts throughout the ward, piercing Munro and every other patient with incandescent arrows and spears and javelins of impossible colours—amber-blue, mostly, and violet-gold, with flashes of incarnadine emerald and dazzling, fiery black—leaving endless twisting actinic trails, limning wheels of fire, wings of flame, spinning and beating and whirling and pulsing, glimpses of faces human and bestial and unfathomable, and eyes, everywhere eyes, a thousand thousand eyes, no two alike, that saw him, saw through him and in him and betwixt and between, eyes that comprehended and judged and remembered and forgave and accepted and_ loved.

 _It was transcendent. It was glorious. It was_ unbearable _. Munro felt a tiny whimper escape his throat._

_Every one of those uncountable eyes seemed to swivel and narrow and focus on him. The angel glided nearer._

_If he could have, Munro would have hid under the blanket, crawled under the cot, dissolved into his component elements, anything to hide from the excruciating compassion in that myriad gaze. But instead he lay, immobile and staring, helpless even to tremble. Then the whirling lines of coruscating splendor somehow …_ unfolded _, and he could peer through levels and measures that escaped space and time, into the very core of the angel, where coiled an immense emptiness, a vast gyring lacuna, bleeding pain and grief and loneliness, a chasm of sorrow both unfathomable and yet so achingly familiar._

 _He understood now why angels in the Scriptures always greeted humans with the command_ Fear Not _. He waited for those words, delivered perhaps in a voice of thunder, or a peal of celestial chimes._

 _What he hadn’t expected was the soft, slightly fussy tones appropriate to an Oxbridge don. “My dear boy, what have they_ done _to you?”_

_Munro wanted to ask the angel the very same question. But that was silly._

_What could_ he _possibly do to help an_ angel _?_

~+<0>+~

_Present_

_London. Shoreditch._

What Crowley should have answered, what he _meant_ to answer, was “I don’t know, and you don’t know, and I don’t _care_ , we’re not those beings anymore, we’re on our own side now.”

What Crowley _actually_ answered was, “Not… That … You …” as he waved his hands helplessly between them. He seemed to be incapable of summoning up more than disconnected monosyllables. What was _wrong_ with him? He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, a little more quickly than he had intended. _Thunk_. It banged painfully against the wall.

Huh. That felt … appropriate. He tried it a couple more times. _Thunk. Thunk_.

“Stop that, dear boy.” Aziraphale frowned at him. “You cannot imagine that I hold it against you. On the contrary, I think it’s … admirable. A testimony to your, well, not _better_ nature, of course, one doesn’t wish to offend, but …”

 _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk_.

“Honestly, Crowley, there’s no need to be so dramatic!” the angel finally snapped. “You have made it perfectly clear what you think of me!”

The demon’s eyes snapped open, as round as dinner plates. “Wot? Er… You _know_? I mean, of course you know, but …”

“I am not an _idiot_ , my dear.” Aziraphale gazed down at the hands clasped in his lap. “You have always been so … really, there isn’t any other word than _kind_ … to me, for thousands of years.”

Crowley shrugged uncomfortably.

“Always, always, always you have been so generous to me: trinkets, time, veritable _heroics_ ,” the angel mused. “And I know that you’ll claim that you’re not, it’s all been to your benefit, the Arrangement and so forth, and I’ve tried to honor that, truly I have, it’s in your nature, your … former affiliation, debts and balance and so forth have always been … _fraught_ , I never wanted you to think that you had any sort of _obligation_ to me …”

“S’not a big deal,” muttered the demon. “Like to give you things. That’s all.”

“Yet you are … _loath_ … to give me the one thing that I have always truly wished for _._ ”

 _Loath_. Crowley cringed under the weight of that word. Even when he tried to get things right, he always ended up screwing up. “What d’you want, then?” _Anything. Anything at all_.

 _Anything … except your corruption_.

“Your receptivity,” Aziraphale said simply. “I want the gift of being permitted to take care of _you_. Occasionally.” A faint pink flush spotted the angel’s cheekbones. “It has always seemed to me that we’ve been … _friends_ , that you viewed me with a certain, oh, dare I say, fondness …” He trailed off, then glanced up at the mural. He squared his shoulders. “Now that neither of us are under such, er, external constraints, I had … hoped … that there might be, well, _more_. But whenever I even attempt simply to pay for a meal, you take offense. And should I dare to offer something of myself … my _True_ Self … it infuriates you. _Repels_ you. What am I to think?”

“Not … not _that_!” _Oh, he had made a right cock-up of this, hadn’t he?_ “You can’t think I dislike you, that you … _disgust_ me!”

“Can’t I?” Aziraphale smiled thinly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Wot? No!” Crowley jumped up and started pacing in agitation. He whirled around to point at the wall accusingly. “Because you think I’m _creeped out_ by your ‘true, native, and most proper shape’?” [26]

Aziraphale’s smile became a bit more genuine. “The Henriad tetralogy, my dear? I thought that you only liked _the funny ones_.”

“Prefer ‘em, don’t I?” Crowley jammed his fingertips into his pockets. “Don’t mean I don’t know the others.”

“Yes, but… Well, that particular cycle leans so heavily on the Tudor myth. Dreadfully moralising, I shouldn’t have thought you’d care for it at all.” The angel shook his head. “Falstaff can be amusing, I suppose –”

“Falstaff,” the demon snapped, “was an _ass_.” It was a relief to be back in this familiar territory, quarreling about Shakespeare, rather than the vulnerable wilderness of feelings. “He was a drunk and a liar and a coward and a crook—”

“In short, everything one could wish for in a charming dining companion,” Aziraphale interrupted cheekily.

“—a pathetic loser who couldn’t deal when his _madcap Prince Hal_ was no longer a callow boy looking for his approval, but had grown into a proper king,” Crowley concluded.

“Perhaps,” the angel conceded, but with the air of one who had a larger point to make. “Yet Henry was needlessly cruel, to cut his acquaintance so thoroughly. Tossing a token of cash, when truly what Sir John wanted most was his _sweet boy_.”

“Falstaff wanted favours from the man in power. He said so himself. Henry gave him chance after chance, to do something worthwhile, and the old knight always traded it in for grift and corruption. Beyond redemption, him.”

“Still, it would have been kinder at least to have visited once in a while, instead of leaving him to die of a broken heart, alone, _offstage_ ,” Aziraphale argued. “How much of his life had the prince spent by Sir John’s side?”

Crowley’s riposte was blunt. “How much had all that time _cost_ Henry? His reputation? His seat on the Council? His _family_?”

“And how much had he gained?” Aziraphale countered, with more passion than a bout of literary criticism possibly deserved. [27] “Does not Warwick intimate that it was this very exposure to the breadth and depth of human nature that gave Henry the experience to be a great and wise ruler? Could not such a king offer a better recompense than _I know thee not, old man_?”

“He had no _choice_!” Crowley insisted.

“He had no _heart_!” Aziraphale spat back.

“Falstaff would have _RUINED_ him!” the demon shouted, spreading his arms wide. “Can’t you _see_ that, you idiot angel?”

“Oh.” All of a sudden, the angel’s face crumpled. “Oh, you foolish Serpent,” he sighed. “Oh, my very dearest boy.” Very gently, he patted the crate next to him. “What did I say earlier, about real lives not following fictional archetypes?”

Oh, _bless_ it all. What had he allowed to fall out of his mouth? “Just a play, angel. Not worth getting worked up about.” Crowley slumped back into a position half-sitting, half-reclining, and half-coiled like a snake.[28]

“And that”—Aziraphale waved his hand back towards the wall—“is just a picture. But one you apparently haven’t examined all that closely.” He pinched his fingers shut, and once again carefully drew the mural out into the room. “Look at it, Crowley. _Look_. Even a human could see it, after just a few minutes in my company. Why can’t you?”

The demon rolled his eyes, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. He allowed his sunglasses to slide down his nose, peering over them in an attempt to figure out what his angel wanted him to see.

 _Oh_.

Crowley unfolded his arms and leaned forward, squinting. He hissed and clenched his fists.

Oh, _no_.

It was too late.

He could see it now, winding through the angel’s True Form, through the interstices of glory and grace. A sinuous gash, a ragged wound, edges torn and bleeding ichor and sorrow; a shape he knew as well as his own … because it _was_ his own.

 _Crowley_ had done this. Inflicted this, this stain, on the only truly good and pure being She had ever created.

For this, he fucking well _deserved_ to be Damned. His fingernails elongated into sharp claws, digging bloody furrows into the meat of his palms.

“NO!” Aziraphale gasped. He seized Crowley’s hands before he could inflict any more damage upon his corporation. “No, no, no! What an idiot I am, I keep thinking that you _know_ , but it wasn’t you, it was _me_!”

Crowley shook his head, still hissing.

“Yes, all on me, dearest. _I_ did that!” Aziraphale squeezed so tightly that Crowley would have protested, except he deserved to suffer, didn’t he? “Think! Think when Munro saw me! It was after the Great War, yes? Four decades after … after … Oh, my dearest demon, you have _always_ been a part of me, as long as I can remember. I don’t know when you first nudged your wily snout into my True Self, but almost from the beginning, there you were, and I couldn’t help but let you slither your way in, shape myself around you, weave you into the pattern of me. And then, and then … you remember, you asked me, no, I _thought_ you asked me, I thought you were going to destroy yourself, I was such a fool, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, so like the coward that I am, I threw you away first!”

“ _Sssstupid_ ,” Crowley said. “Not you, _I_ wass sstupid, I didn’t explain, I jussst got angry…”

“And you were very right to do so!” Aziraphale said. “I tried to tear you out, much good that it did. All I accomplished was rip out the very heart of me. And by the time I realized this, that you weren’t _coming back_ , that emptiness and grief and shame was all I had left of you.” He swallowed, audibly. “I would have rather walked into Hellfire than try to smooth it away.”

“M’sorry. Angel, I am so so sssorry. I should’ve…”

“But you _did_ , don’t you see, you did!” Aziraphale was weeping now, and each tear burned the demon like Holy Water. “That night. In the church. Not that I deserved it, but you returned. You saved me, and what’s more, you saved my books, because you know me, you understand me, you _see_ me, and you knew what I needed.” The angel looked at Crowley, his chin trembling. “You didn’t _ruin_ me, darling,” he said, voice very soft. “You made me whole. You made me, _make_ me, more, well, me.” He lifted his hands, their hands, fingers interlaced, to cup Crowley’s face. “And I love you for it.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks were still streaked and damp, but his eyes were bright, brighter than any star Crowley had hung in the black velvet sky. _I did that_ , Crowley thought, dizzy with astonishment. _Me. I put that light in an angel’s face._ “Angel,” he rasped, barely able to force words out. “You know, don’t you? That … that I do love you. _All_ of you. I love you so, ssso much.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, but he tilted the demon’s face down, just a little. Then, with a pretty pink blush, he let his eyes flutter shut.

 _This is really happening_ , Crowley thought, dazed. _I am actually about to_ kiss _Azi_ -

The door banged open. “Mr. Fell, I thought you’d like to know that Bennie _ohmygod_ I’m sorry I’m sorry I’ll just go away now…”

Crowley readied himself to miraculously ensure that this kid would leave ink pens in the pockets of their laundry for the rest of their life.

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale whispered to him.[29] His eyes were still wet, still shining, and still very much fixed on Crowley’s. “No need, Mx Baqri. We were just on our way.” Angelic fingers pressed a demon’s hands once more, very gently, then fell away.

~+<0>+~

_A Z Fell & Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books_

_London. Soho_

By tacit agreement, they didn’t say a word as they left the mural behind, walking back down the stairs, then out the front door to the Bentley.[31] They drove back to Soho in silence, but the atmosphere wasn’t tense, exactly, just … watchful. Waiting. _Sod it_ , Crowley thought. It shouldn’t always fall to Aziraphale to be the brave one. Eyes fixed on the road, he placed one hand on the passenger seat, and almost passed out with relief when Aziraphale grasped it warmly.

“Crowley …” he began, then stopped.

“Aziraphale …” the other teased, but without malice. He parked in his customary illegal space and turned to the angel.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated, with more determination this time, “Before we … well, before whatever we decide to do … I think it would be a very good idea for you to look at me.”

“All right,” the demon said agreeably. “Looking right now.”

“Not like that. I mean _Look_ at me. Or … let me _show_ you me. All of Me.”

Crowley frowned. “Aziraphale, I have seen you for six thousand years. You don’t need to …” He made a complicated gesture. “ _Manifest_. S’not exactly safe, is it?”

“The shop should be perfectly fine. I keep it heavily warded, and it’s entirely accustomed to the intrusion of extra dimensions. One of the hazards of the book trade.” Aziraphale clasped Crowley’s hand between both of his. “And you know very well, dearest, that seeing through a corporation isn’t at all the same as … direct experience.”

“Yeah.” Crowley did know. And he also knew the magnitude of what was being suggested. Pluripotent as an angel’s True Form might be, it was also uniquely vulnerable; nothing of their entire essence could be hidden, or prettied up, or explained away. From Aziraphale—who was so afraid to reveal the more terrifying aspects of his metaphysical self, who had just admitted to mangling his own Being out of fear and anger—the offer was simply astonishing. There was only one possible response to a gift like that: “And, y’know … You can see Me, too. If you like.”

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale’s voice was like melted honey. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Nah. S’not a big deal, is it?” Crowley was determined to be casual about this. Aziraphale wouldn’t run away screaming, right? The angel already knew the worst of him: _Fallen. Corrupted. Ruined_. “It’s like the humans always say: I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Which is how a demon and an angel found themselves in the center of the bookshop, directly beneath the circular skylight, furniture and clutter miraculously pushed to the walls to create a large open space.[32] While it was certainly possible for both of them to access their eldritch selves directly, Aziraphale had deemed it more prudent to proceed by gradual steps, to avoid any unpredictable side effects. Wings were easy to start with. They were always present in the nearest plane, anyway, positively itching to manifest at the slightest provocation. Crowley was comfortable enough with his; they might be burnt and and slightly twisted, but he maintained them meticulously, so that they positively gleamed with an anthracite rainbow sheen, infinitely more _cool_ than Aziraphale’s untidy … floofy … pearlescent … _enormous_ … Crowley shook his head.

Right then. Next stage.

Obsidian scales rippled over skin, barely-jointed bones scattered and multiplied, ruby hood flared and settled, as his corporation stretched and looped across the shabby carpet. In the place of a lanky human-shaped corporation, six feet of black-and-scarlet serpent reared upright, twice that length coiling beneath him. His sinuous split tongue instinctively darted out, tasting for threats. None were more dangerous than the other being in the shop.

Instead of tucking his primary wings away, Aziraphale had unfolded a second pair, nearly as expansive as the first, and a radiant nimbus of Grace swirled about his head, no, his _heads_ , three more fierce, vaguely feral countenances visible amid the blinding glare of his halo. The angel’s familiar beige-and-cream outfit bleached to a dazzling stark white, emitting its own painful Divine glow.

Crowley couldn’t help himself; he cringed, just a little.

Aziraphale noticed (of _course_ he noticed, he had eight bloody eyes at the moment, and who knew how many thousands more about to burst forth) and his light dimmed slightly. “Oh, dear one, I am _hurting_ you! Shall I stop?”

Crowley shook his head. Then, realizing that this wasn’t exactly an un-ambiguous gesture from a snake, hissed out a hasty reply. “No, no, sss’fine, only ssssstingss a bit.” Which was true; but even if had hurt like blessed consecrated ground, the demon would have never admitted it. He’d let Holiness scour his scales clean off before he’d let the angel think that Crowley rejected any part of him.

“Are you _quite_ sure?”

“Yesssss! Get on with it already!”

Aziraphale gave an affronted huff (which, honestly, was the most reassuring thing that Crowley had heard all day) and glowed impossibly brighter for a moment. Then he sort of … wiggled … and stretched … and _popped_ …

… while Crowley cast his inner self out into the adjoining dimensions … or perhaps, yanked his outer self _in_ …

… and he felt himself unfurling like a Moebius strip, inside the bookshop, yes, but at the same time (no time, he was outside of Time) he was in a space that was not-quite-next-to All-Space …

… and he was not alone ...

… in half a dozen dimensions, an occult serpentine entity circled around their non-Euclidean counterpart, nosing closer, then away, hesitant and unsure. The ethereal being, spun of oculi and feathers and glory, _laughed_ (or so it seemed, as golden and silver sparkles shivered and sang), bursting zir impossible shapes open and welcoming. The demon—every scale glittering with swallowed starlight, blazing with crimson fire—wound nearer and tighter, slithering in a manner almost entirely unlike an earthly snake [33], seeking that place so carefully sculpted just for them, so long awaiting their presence, yearning for their occupancy, until

a human might have said that Aziraphale pulled Crowley into zir arms, or held them in zir heart or

Crowley might have said that Crowley rose within Aziraphale as the sap within zir veins, or they ignited the core of zir radiant star

but this was Aziraphale, and zie didn’t love like that

Aziraphale took Crowley and stitched them into the spine of zir infinite codex, gathering all zir scattered folios into settled order, keeping zir pages firmly attached and safe. Aziraphale forged Crowley into zir Damascus blade, tempering them with a thousand thousand beaten folds, until they became the very pattern etched into the steel

Aziraphale _loved_ Crowley, and Crowley loved Aziraphale, and they coiled within zir and zie wove around them and together they were light and life and love and love and love.

~+<0>+~

All over London that late afternoon, strange things were happening.

Every single streetlight in Soho turned red simultaneously, causing a borough-wide traffic snarl that took until nightfall to clear up.

On Bond Street, a water main burst outside Dolce & Gabbana, dousing upscale residents and wide-eyed tourists alike with dirty water.

Rubbish bins all along Mount Street in Mayfair spontaneously burst into flames.

On the other hand, every church bell tower in London began ringing a quarter peal for no discernible reason.

Wine cellars of several restaurants frequented by a certain couple experienced a sudden upgrade in both quantity and quality.

Two experimental poets on opposite sides of the city, who had never previously met, suddenly began texting each other lines for a collaborative lyrical ballad.

And in St. James Park, all the dogs began dancing on the ends of their leashes, tails wagging, and barking with joy.

~++~

END

### Footnotes

26. from Henry IV pt. 2, but you didn’t need to be told that, did you?↩

27. Although not _necessarily_. Aziraphale had very strong opinions about Shakespeare, after all. There didn’t _need_ to be any more to it than that.↩

28. Yes, that’s three halves. And your point is?↩

29. Later that week, Mx Baqri received a misaddressed package, return label smudged beyond reading, containing a large number of jewelry findings, coloured mirror tiles, and miscellaneous doll parts. [30] They eventually incorporated most of these pieces into the sculpture submitted as their final project for the Fine Arts degree, receiving a First and plaudits for the work’s “inherent eroticism.”↩

30. They weren’t particularly weirded out by it. This sort of thing tended to happen a _lot_ to members of the Collective.↩

31. Who was a little disappointed, to be honest. She had spent the better part of an hour luring in a pair of local chavs, and had been looking forward to trapping their fingers when they tried to break into her boot.↩

32. Aziraphale had every intention to proceed as carefully as possible, but it would be simply unacceptable for any sudden material inrush of metaphysical Aspects to damage his precious books.↩

33. A better comparison might be made to magnetic fields gently shaping a spiral of plasma. Or, since that’s rather difficult for humans to perceive, imagine the soaring flavour of a jazzy saxophone solo, caressed by the scent of sunshine and the colour of Spring.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank YOU most of all for reading. Comments and kudos provide much-needed serotonin!

**Author's Note:**

> This story is mostly complete and will update on Mondays and Thursdays.


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